


Sherlock Drabble!

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Molly Hooper, F/F, F/M, Greg has a daughter sometimes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Mystrade gets a dog, Pay attention to chapter notes please, Sherlock needs comfort, Sherstrade, Some Swearing, mormor, mystrade, they may contain potential triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the drabble I've written with multiple pairings for the Sherlock BBC universe.<br/>Johnlock fics are always separate, but the relationship might be referenced here.<br/>If you follow me you'll notice I've decided to combine all my drabble into one massive work, instead of a series.<br/>Tags will be updated as needed.<br/>Updates are whenever I get stumped on my other fic and need a release, or when I get a request.<br/>Find me at http://hums-happily.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molstrade: Postmortems, Strange Cheese, and a Wedding

Gregory Lestrade swore under his breath as he climbed the stairs up to Molly’s office. He had been on a lunch date on his day off when the call came in from the high ups saying that he needed to get the Smith files and come in immediately. His date had left angry, his chances ruined and the elevator in Bart’s north wing was broken. Greg rounded the corner and walked the few steps to Molly’s office. At least he looked nice.  
Knocking on the open door, he was startled by the crash of a coffee mug flying off a desk. Molly Hooper was startled and quite red in the face. Apparently she hadn’t gotten the message he was coming by. Molly was pretty cute when she got flustered, which of course was all time. She blushed and made jokes about dead people. What wasn’t to like about her? Except when she was angry. Then Molly got quite frightening. She did make quite the impression, this small girl not afraid to slap Sherlock Holmes in the face. He had seen full grown men run crying from the detective.  
“Hi Molly. You didn’t get the message? Just came up for the Smith files. They aren’t in the system yet and the bosses are going mad for them.”  
She looked at him for a moment almost staring before blinking a little and turning away to fetch the files. “Er.. yeah sure. They should be here somewhere…” she told him as she went through her endless paperwork. “Here.” She said with a smile, briskly walking around the table again and handing him the papers.  
"Thanks Molly. Umm listen do you wanna… Um. You know what never mind I’m sure you’re busy." Blushing a little Greg made his retreat towards the door. Just as his hand was on the handle, Molly responded.  
"I’d love to, Greg. If you were trying to ask, I mean whatever it is…I’d love to." She said, her hand going to the rub the back of her neck, nervously.  
"Well I just was asking if you wanted to go to dinner. There’s this new Italian place and I’d like someone to go with? Tonight around eight?"  
Molly nodded with a big smile. “That sounds wonderful Greg, I’d love that.”

—————————————————  Six hours later and one bruised rib, Greg was regretting asking Molly out to the new Italian place down the road. As it turned out the new place and owner were actually part of a money laundering scheme, turned poisoning plot. This was made clear after Sherlock Holmes crashed onto their table on top of the main course. Greg had arrested the owner, after John had tackled him and was now sitting outside holding his side and his bleeding nose. Both injuries courtesy of the owners very large boyfriend. "Molly I’m ‘o ‘orry." Greg mumbles around the blood trickling down his throat. "I ad no idea. Herlock is in so much trouble." Greg broke off apologizing as John shouted from the back of the ambulance where Sherlock was sitting, again wrapped in a orange shock blanket. "We’re sorry you two —Sherlock, hold still you git and let them stitch you— good luck!" Greg grimaced at Molly, who was looking rather panicked. Understandable, as not every date ended with a consulting detective in your soup and your date in the back of a paramedics van. A paramedic came over to check on him as Molly stood grasping for the right words to say as she watched the paramedic work and place an ice pack on Greg’s nose.  
“Molly,it isn’t that bad honestly! I mean look my noise has stopped bleeding already." Greg gestured to the aforementioned nose. "True enough, sir, and the rib looks only bruised like you said. You’ll need an X-Ray to be safe though." The paramedic injected in.  
"See Molly Hooper? All that worry for nothing." Greg said with a smile, "and I really have had a nice time tonight. Perhaps again? Somewhere Sherlock can’t break the table?"  
She laughed a little. “Oh you know his methods, there’s nowhere we could go, where he couldn’t break the table.” She said with a smile. “But yes, I had a lovely time and I’d love to do this, er sort of thing again…” she trailed off. “But maybe without the fighting…sorry by the way, about the frying pan thing, I meant to hit the other guy…” she said quietly embarrassed.  
"It’s fine really! And when I fell down, he tripped over me so we got him in the end! See there he goes in the squad car. Bastard." Molly turned to watch the car drive off, and bless her heart gave the man a two finger salute. Greg grinned. He certainly had made a good choice. "Molly. Would you like to come with me to grab some coffee?"  
"What? Now? You are hardly in a fit state to…go anywhere….really… If you think so,yeah sure…er yes, I would like to get coffee with you. I’m sure could use it…." She said quickly, she was a little lost for words again, this seemed to happen a lot around him.  
"Um the lady is right. You do need to go have these ribs looked at.” the paramedic said awkwardly.  
Greg scowled. "Fine. But I meant what I said Molly, I want to try this again. I haven’t laughed that much in ages."  
"Me too, definitely. I had a great time! Except for you know…when sherlock broke the table…that was er….yeah…" she trailed off trying to find the word but gave up. "Bad….?" She looked away awkwardly rubbing he back of her neck. "Did you erm, want me to go with you? Like to the hospital…I don’t know I thought you might like to have some company…its fine don’t worry, I’ll leave you to it if you want." She said hurriedly.

No! I mean you really don’t have to. I’ll be fine. But um.. I’ll call you later? When I find out about the ribs. If it isn’t late!” God forbid Molly find out about his fear of needles before they even had their second date  
"Sure thing, you’ve got my number, just call if you need anything." she said carefully placing her hand over his.

 

Molly laid in bed tossing and turning. The images of Greg getting walloped by a frying pan echoed relentlessly in her mind when she closed her eyes. She did feel a bit guilty. At least the ribs weren’t her fault. She glanced over at the dim lights of the clock that showed it was just turning 4:00 am. As she tossed and turned in her bed, a sweet tinkling noise alerted her to the arrival of a text message.  
Hey it’s Greg. I didn’t want to call cause it’s so late.  
My ribs (and nose) are fine. I figured you have to work tomorrow. I have stop by Bart’s around 12 for some paperwork. Wanna get lunch?  
~GL

Molly smiled as she tapped out a reply and sent it off.  
Hi, I was up anyway. Having trouble sleeping it seems. I would like that. I’m on break around 12 so that’s fine.  
Looking forward to it.  
~MH

Greg grinned as Molly’s reply lit up his screen. He was still in the hospital, just having finished his x-rays. He could get home, grab a couple of hours of sleep and make it to the station and then Bart’s by 12.  
 "Get some sleep Molly. I’ll see you tomorrow. ~GL”

She put the phone to one side feeling comforted, yet unsure why. It certainly allowed her to sleep, because she found herself waking up the next morning, after a few hours of sleep. Still tired, she brainlessly went through her routines and realized she had gotten herself back to the hospital, only properly waking up to see the clock reading 11:50. She had ten more minutes before she could go and see Greg for lunch. She smiled to herself, she had missed him.  
Greg woke up to the clock flashing 11:25. "Shit." He glanced over at the phone which was still on silent from the hospital, wondering why his alarm hadn’t gone off. An incoming call from Donovan was lighting up his screen.  
"Hello?" He answered grabbing the phone. "Yeah Donovan. Shit. It was on silent. Where? Alright I’m on my way."  
There went his lunch date with Molly and he had overslept so no time for breakfast. Sending off a text to Molly apologizing and promising to talk later, he ran off for a five minute shower.

Molly bit her lip when she read the message, but she didn’t really feel too upset. It wasn’t enough to ruin her day. Lots of men had turned her down after the first date. Greg was just trying to let her down easy. It had happened before. She’d let him off the hook later.  
Shrugging off the insult, she went back to cutting open the body of a recent victim Sherlock had so kindly had delivered.  
It was around six in the evening when she finished up, and left the lab. She texted Greg as she headed to her office.  
Hey, finished work. Just wondered if we could meet up and talk sometime tonight? It’s ok if you’re not free, it’s no big deal.  
~MH

Molly looked back down at her phone as it buzzed in her hand. Greg was texting her back already? Are you coming to your office? I hope so…  
~GL  
Molly glanced up at her office door. Why did it matter if she was going to her office? Opening the door cautiously, she walked in and gasped. Greg was standing there with a bouquet of flowers, a bag of takeout and a embarrassed grin.  
"Molly Hooper I would like to formally apologize for the amount of criminals in London who continue to disrupt our plans," he said in a posh voice, "Furthermore, I would like to ask you to dine with me in a place where the only criminals in the vicinity are dead or handcuffed to their hospital beds." Setting the bag of food down on the desk, Greg stepped closer and shoved the flowers into her arms. "Hazard of the job is that criminals are a constant and the hours are horrible. But I am very glad you were still here when I showed up." His eyes met hers and he smiled.  
She laughed a little at the formality, and nodded in agreement. “Greg, this is simply wonderful, thank you.” she said blushing, before leaving a kiss on his cheek. “Shall we?” she said gesturing to the table, placing the flowers carefully in a vase, to keep them safe. “Criminals we are safe from. Let’s just hope Sherlock won't manage to break the table again!” she said with a giggle.

"You had an empty vase and everything. Ms. Hooper comes prepared I see. I am sorry about earlier. Did you get the body in? Nasty case of fungal growth according to Sherlock. Looked more like bad cheese to me”  
 Greg stopped. “Oh sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Molly was laughing. Laughing at bad cheese growing on a dead body. "No it’s fine, Greg." She snorted.  
 "Guess there is something to be said about dating a girl who does postmortems aye?” Greg chuckled.

“Only for the sake of law and order do I accomplish what others are unable to.” She blurted words Sherlock had quoted at her ages ago, unable to combat her nerves. 

"And she quotes Sherlock Holmes? He said the same thing to me once. He really does care about us, even of he doesn’t show it." Greg smiled. "Now come on, the food’s getting cold."

———————————————————————-   
Two years later, Molly Hooper was nervously brushing down her wedding dress.  
"Molly?" A knock at the door, "are you decent? It’s almost time." "Yes! Yes! I’m… I’m ready…I think." Molly opened the door to see her father’s face smiling back at her. “Darling, you look lovely. Your mother would be so proud. Come on then." He said, offering his arm.  
As Molly rounded the corner to the church sanctuary, she could feel all the eyes on her, watching, waiting for her to make her way. The pair of warm dark brown eyes ahead of her was the only thing that could start her walking down the aisle.  
By the time she reached her Greg standing up by the priest, she was blushing brightly and nearly hyperventilating. "Hey Molls, breathe. I love you." Greg whispered, taking her hand. "You do postmortems remember? This can’t be any worse." Molly smiled up at her lover, blush receding and breath slowing. "I love you too."


	2. Mystrade: Painted Walls

Greg looked up at the clock and sighed. Quarter past three in the morning and he was just finished with the paperwork from the Antony case. Nasty double homicide that had kept him busy for the past two weeks. If Sherlock had been in town it likely would have only taken a day or two, but he and John were off in Dublin for some conference. He’d have to go home to an empty house because Mycroft wasn’t due back for another two weeks at minimum. Would it be wrong of them to get a dog? It would be nice to have someone at home waiting, happy to see him. Of course, neither of them were home so it would be mean to the dog. No. No dog. Maybe a cat? Just so there was a being present in the house? Cat’s don’t like to be walked right?

Greg stood up, yawning and stretching his arms, before swinging his coat on. He gathered his things, threw them into his shoulder bag and left the office. He waved at Clark as he passed the security desk. On the elevator ride down to the car park he checked his phone. An empty screen flashed back at him. Greg sighed again, as he walked toward the car. He was dying for a smoke, but he and Mycroft had made a quitting pact. Neither one of them got to smoke and if they were off cigarettes for a whole month, they planned to take a weekend and go up to Greg’s cottage and relax. It had been a month and two weeks since either of them had smoked, but Mycroft had gotten pulled for a meeting away in god knows where. 

The drive home was short and uneventful since there was no one on the road. Greg managed all green signals and pulled into the drive just as the clock flipped to four in the morning.  
He entered the house slowly, punching the code in number by number, dragging his feet as much as possible. There was no love lost between Greg and the house he had moved into with Mycroft. It was large, and echoey. When Myc was home or Greg’s daughter came to visit the house was filled with laughter and love and the sense of belonging. When it was just Greg, the house was dark and gloomy. Maybe a paint job would help. The bland grey walls certainly weren’t doing the house any favors. Mycroft had promised to pick new colors when he got home. He had seemed just as unhappy with the paint job as Greg, and had made some sentimental quip about Greg bringing color to his life, but not his house.   
Greg hung up his coat and toed off his shoes in the doorway. He sniffed as an odd smell wafted past his nostrils. Paint?   
Greg followed the hallway as it wrapped around, passing the empty dining room, study, and bathroom. The bedroom door was closed and no light shone from under the door. Greg walked in slowly and flipped on the light. The walls were shimmering in the light, freshly painted and wet. Greg went forward, careful not to brush against the walls or trim.

Greg grinned. Where the bedroom had once been a rather boring shade of cream, the walls were now a deep forest green. The dresser and other furniture had been pulled away from the walls and The old maroon bedspread had been replaced with a complimentary rich chocolate brown cover, and had a sealed envelope in the middle. Greg reached over and broke the seal. 

 

Gregory,    
It pains me to be away for so long, but I know that you understand. I had promised to pick out paint colors for the house when I got back, but I knew you would be appreciative of the work I had done today. 

Perhaps, when I return we can go to the cottage as I promised. You may wish to stay the night in the spare room to avoid aggravating your sinuses with the lingering fumes, and the danger of shins colliding with furniture in the dark.

Yours always,

Mycroft. 

Greg set the note down on the bedside table and went to change his clothes in the closet. Figures that Mycroft would go and do something adorable when Greg was missing him most. Pulling on an old pair of track bottoms and a ragged t-shirt, Greg left his dirty clothes on the ground and left the bedroom. Ignoring the kitchen in favor of a soft bed, Greg flipped the house lights off and made his way to the spare room. Groaning, Greg slid into the bed, feeling the stress of the day slip away from him. The only way this bed could be better was if Mycroft were here, Greg mused, sleep stealing over him. Maybe he’d be home early. It had happened before.


	3. Mystrade: Love Letters

“Myc!” Greg called out from the bottom of the staircase. “Mycroft!”  
Shaking his head wearily, Greg began to climb up the marble steps.

“Mycroft Holmes, I have made a very nice dinner and if you think you are going to get away with not eating, you have another thing coming. I do not care how busy you are, the world will not devolve into chaos if you take a ten minute break.” 

Greg opened the door to the study where Mycroft normally hid himself away to work. Mycroft had been out of the country for the last five days and had only gotten home early that morning. He hadn’t bothered with resting, and had gone into the office at six. Apparently, however even the British Government was susceptible to bodily demands. His husband was on the sofa fast asleep, a leather bound book resting on his chest. Greg smiled and walked over. He plucked the book off Myc’s chest and set it on the coffee table. Grabbing a ridiculous purple striped afghan out of the nearest closet, he settled it over Mycroft’s lanky body. He went to close the book on the coffee table, but noticed something strange. The pages were in Mycroft’s handwriting, looping yet business-like. Greg took the book with him and moved over to the armchair. Greg really couldn’t help it. He was terribly terribly nosey, had been for his whole life. The trouble with that is it tended to get him trouble   
He peered closer expecting to find a daily log of activities or something similarly boring and highly classified. Instead what he found left him breathless. 

June 11, 2026

My Gregory,

I cannot tell you how much I longed to see your face when I was away. It takes all my fortitude to not dash out my meetings, leap into a car and take the first flight back to England whenever I am away. It is a ridiculous, sentimental urge and I would not wish it any other way. Perhaps, one day I will be brave enough to show you the true depths of my heart. Perhaps, I will not because by now it should be clear that to see the depths of my heart all you have to do is glance in a mirror. For dear Gregory, my heart rests always with you. 

All my love.

 

The entry stopped there. Gregory flipped through the pages, growing teary eyed with each turn.   
The book was full of love letters Mycroft had written. Words danced in his mind, pulled from the quick glances at each page. 

 

“You have brought colour to my otherwise dreary life.”

“We have been together for three years. I cannot imagine life without you, even if you are stupidly obsessed with football. Why must you drag me to those games?”

“I don’t worry so much about carrying an umbrella anymore, because I know you’ll shield me from the storms. The sentiment is so mundane, but so appropriate.”

“Your daughter visited today. She took one look at me and told me just how much I loved you when you went to make tea. Are you sure she isn’t a Holmes? She even deduced where I had hidden the ring.” 

“You were shot today. Only a graze, but I’d swear on England that my heart stopped.”

“We were married today. Sherlock told me I shouldn’t smile because I looked like a fool. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Prince Harry married today. You looked so dashing at the reception. I should have shown you off to everyone, even the useless ambassador from Peru.”

 

Every entry began with the same two words.  
‘My Gregory’  
Every entry ended with the same three words.   
‘All my love’

Greg exhaled and put his head in his hands. Nearly eleven years together and Mycroft still managed to astound him. The book was nearly full, only ten pages left. Ten more love letters. The man who so efficiently walled himself off from the world, created an icy facade that few ever saw past, was pouring his heart out through paper and pen. 

Opening the book to the last page, Greg pulled the pen from its slot on the back cover.  
He began to write.

Mycroft,

I don’t have a way with words. I can’t tell you how I feel with scripted phrases and words that flow. But if I had to list all the ways I love you, there wouldn’t be enough ink in the world. It would take a forest to make enough paper, it would take years just to get halfway through. You make me a better person. Maybe you’ll be upset that I read these, even though they were written to me. Maybe you won’t ever show me and you’ll pretend you haven’t seen this letter. I just needed you to know that you and only you have completed my universe, and I will never stop loving all of you.

All my love,  
Your Gregory. 

 

Greg stood up, closed the book and set it on the coffee table. He walked over to Mycroft and set a gentle kiss on his brow. He left the study to go put dinner in the fridge for later, flipping the lights off behind him.


	4. Sherstrade: John Knows...So Does Mycroft

This can’t be happening  
I can’t panic.  
I’m panicking.  
It will all be fine; he’ll be fine!  
What if he isn’t?  
Why does he have to run round London with a fucking death wish?

 

Greg’s thoughts flew around in his head as he burst throughout the double doors of Bart’s hospital. He skidded around the corner to the Emergency waiting area and saw John standing in the far corner. Mycroft was sitting close, umbrella leaning against his knee staring into the distance. 

“Where is he? Have they told you? Why aren't you with him? Oh God, John don’t tell me-“  
“Greg!” John said in his stern I-am-a-doctor-calm-your-arse-down voice, as he grabbed Greg by the shoulders. “Greg, he’s fine, calm down.”  
Greg felt the fear and tension that had been coiled in his belly, slither away.   
“They’ve taken him back for a scan. The only reason they took him here was because he blacked out after the car hit him. They thought he hit his head when he fell. Stupid git just hadn’t eaten more than a biscuit in two days or slept, so it was likely the shock of being hit and not being up to par. The nurse said we can go back in a bit.”

 

Greg sat heavily in the nearest chair, heaving a breath of relief. Mycroft left with his phone, likely headed into the nearest secure area, to arrange a small war for the weekend. 

I’m not young enough for this.  
It isn’t my fault I wasn’t there, but I’ll be damned if I don’t feel guilty.  
Fucking hell. Stupid meetings, I should have gone with them. Sherlock needs to develop some bloody patience. 

Sherlock and John had been working a murder case for Lestrade, and apparently the suspect had decided to run Sherlock down with his car. Not the first time something of the sort had happened, but certainly the first fellow to actually hit Sherlock with a car. Normally, the consulting detective was swift enough to avoid any major collisions. This time however….  
John was still talking.

“Anyway, so we knew Ronan was the guy and we went into the shop to find the pendant. When we came back out, Sherlock was walking across the road to check the trash can when that prick hit him with his car. I got Sherlock out of the road as the guy was reversing. He didn’t look where he was going and backed into a fucking phone pole. Stupid ass. By that time the cops showed up with that idiot Dole, who can’t find a criminal to save his life, in charge. They arrested the fucker, the paramedics showed up and Sherlock woke up for long enough to hurl abuse at Dole for taking pictures when he was blacked out and to tell me to call you.” John paused and caught Greg’s eye meaningfully, “I’d really like to know why exactly of all people, Sherlock would want you here? Dole’s men already caught Ronan, so it wasn’t for your policing skills.”

Greg shuffled his feet guiltily and tried to look confused. “I don’t know. Why does Sherlock do anything?”

“Really Greg? Are you sure you don’t know?” John said arching his eyebrow. “You two aren’t hiding something from me?” 

Shit. John knows. Of course, John knows. He shares a flat with the man. I told Sherlock it was stupid to hide it from him  
Should I tell him? Better find out how much he knows first. 

 

“What do you know?” Greg asked.  
“I know that you two are sleeping together and have been for the past year. ”  
Greg glared at John, daring him to comment.  
“So what? We can’t have a little fun?”   
“Sherlock doesn’t do fun. Sherlock doesn’t do much unless he is getting something out of it. You two are together and it’s making him happy, even if he’d never admit it. You are happy even if you won’t admit it. You don’t yell anymore. You get a stupid smile on your face whenever Sherlock breezes into the crime scene. He always looks to find you first when we show up at a scene, just to make sure you’re there and safe. You two stupid fucks have fallen in love and you need to do something about it. ”

Greg was stunned. Sherlock harangued almost everyone for their lack of deductive skills. He rarely did so with John, and this apparently was why. For all Sherlock could read evidence, the dirt on your shoes, the stains on your tie, John could read people. He was damned good at it too. 

“So I’m going to tell you this right now. That nurse is coming down the hallway and she's gonna tell us Sherlock is back in his room. You’re going to go in there, song Sherlock senseless, and tell him the truth. Do you understand me, Lestrade? Oh. But if you hurt him? I am sure Mycroft can get me out of the country.” John finished in a tone that suggested if Greg was planning otherwise he would be sorely punished. 

Greg nodded just as the nurse popped into the waiting room. 

“He can have visitors now.” She said in a cheery voice, “Immediate family only please.”

“His husband is right here.” John said, with a twinkle in his eye, pushing Greg forward.  
Greg had just a moment to see the look of pure shock cross the recently returned Mycroft’s face before the door swung shut behind him. 

Definitely telling Sherlock about that. John is in so much trouble when I get back 

The nurse led him to the door and smiled as she opened it.  
“Here dear. Go tell him how worried you were.” 

Greg peered in to see Sherlock sitting up on the bed reading his medical chart. 

“Sherlock?” Greg said hesitantly, stepping in and letting the door shut behind him.

Sherlock looked up and had the grace to look somewhat guilty before his walls slammed back up. 

“Ah. Lestrade. Is John coming along behind you?”  
“No it’s..it’s just us. John said you asked him to call me when you were hit?” Greg said walking over the bed.

“Well I..” Sherlock faltered and then switched topics, “We caught Ronan. I wished to inform you.”  
“No Sherlock.” Greg said quietly, “The truth, please.”  
“I….I.” Sherlock was at a loss for words. “Common practice says that one’s significant other should be notified in the event of an injury. While we have not yet put our relationship into a category it goes without saying that there is indeed some amount of sentiment attachment on your part towards me. That in, addition to the fact that I was injured while working your case, adds guilt to the worry I expect you are also feeling.”

“You git.” Greg said leaning over and wrapping his arms around the younger man, “You absolute fucking arsehole. You’re right. I feel guilty because you were hurt on my case, I feel terrible that I wasn’t there to push you out of the way, and I was so fucking worried you had been seriously hurt because I wasn’t there to protect you. That’s my job, Sher, I protect people and today I wasn’t there to protect the one person who matters most to me.” 

Greg stood up and tilted Sherlock’s face up with his hands. “Look at me Sherlock.”  
Only when light eyes met dark did Greg say the words that had been rolling in his chest for months.   
“I love you” 

He felt Sherlocks jaw tighten, and saw his eyes fill with an unnamed emotion. Fear, joy, and longing in equal parts.

“You can’t.” Sherlock managed to stutter out, “I..You can’t.”

Greg pulled away, still cradling the detectives face. “Give me one good reason why, Sherlock and I will walk away right now. But I’m telling you there isn’t one.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat and reached a hand out to cup around Greg’s. Greg could see moisture in his eyes “I’m not good for anyone. I hurt everyone, everything I try to love. I can’t. I can’t let you, watch you, get hurt.”

Greg shook his head, smiling sadly, “Sherlock, You have the most beautiful brain on this planet. You are kind when people deserve kindness. You are gentle when the need arises. You whirl around like a bat out of hell and you bring so much color into my life Sherlock, and I can’t let you go. You will hurt me. But I’ll hurt you too. That’s what love is. Learning to move past the hurt and never letting go because once you find your match you never, never let them go.”

Sherlock sat up on the bed wincing slightly. He reached out to Greg, placing a cold hand on the back of his neck. “I’m not good with words Greg. I can’t promise to be the best partner or to always keep safe. I leave body parts in the fridge and bacterial cultures in the bathroom. But I promise to show you just how much I do. Because there is worry in my stomach when I know you’re in danger. I find myself thinking about you when we are apart. I look for you first at crime scenes, when I used to look for nothing but the body. John says I smile now and Mrs. Hudson said she caught me singing the other day. You’ve saved my life more than once and I can’t help but worry that one day you’ll get tired of saving me and getting nothing in return. Because, the only thing I can give you to repay you is hard for me to find, hard for me to voice. But I will try. I will try everyday to be a man that is worthy of you. I love you and only you, Gregory Lestrade. 

Sherlock pulled Greg down for a kiss you only hear about in story books. It was born of passion and fear and trust and relief. It was a kiss that left both men breathless and shaking, needing more, needing to be closer. They twined together as best they could. Greg could feel Sherlock’s heart beating, steady and strong. The men jumped apart as there was a knock at the door.   
“Are you two finished?” John’s voice came through, sounding a bit perturbed.  
Sherlock glared at Greg, the moment over. “You told John?”  
“John knew. John told me I was a stupid git who needed to sort it out and admit that I loved you. He’s a hell of a lot smarter then you give him credit for.”   
“Come in John!” Sherlock yelled, sneaking in one more peck on the lips. “Greg?” Sherlock asked, with an evil glint in his eyes, as John made his way in.

“When do you want to tell Mycroft?”


	5. Mystrade-Lucky

“Mycroft!” yelled Greg Lestrade as he poked his head in the front door.   
“Myc?”He said a bit quieter as he entered the kitchen. He looked around guiltily before entering the house on tiptoe. In his right hand he held a bag from the closest pet store.  
In his left he held a leash. The leash was attached to a dog.  
The pair walked through to the sitting room, Greg still looking around nervously, the dog, as yet unnamed, panting happily.

Greg sunk into the sofa, dog plopping down in front of him and bumping his leg for attention.   
“Hello sweetheart.” Greg murmured, scratching behind her ears. “You alright darling? Hmm? How’s that? You hungry still? No?”

The dog licked Greg’s palm and placed her lone front paw on the sofa as if to ask ‘Am I allowed up here?’  
“Up then.” Greg smiled at the creature and patted beside him, waiting to see if she needed a boost. Apparently not as she popped right up with no trouble, despite the missing leg.  
“Maybe we can get in a well deserved nap before Myc comes home and gives me the evil eye for allowing a dog into the house.” Greg said looking down at her.  
The dog looked up and blinked once. Greg figured the look was dog for ‘Don’t get me in trouble. I’m just here for the food.’   
Yawning again, Greg leaned back and closed his eyes. The dog curled in to his side and laid her head on his lap, apparently agreeing with the idea of a nap.  
—————

Several hours later, when nighttime was in full swing, Greg awoke to…no dog.  
“Shit!” Greg looked toward the door he had shut before resting. It was cracked open, just the right amount for a dog to slip through. Swearing some more, Greg hopped off the couch, intent on finding the dog and cleaning up any destruction left by the fluffy terror before Mycroft could return and murder both he and the dog. He entered the hall, praying that the dog hadn’t eaten anything irreplaceable. As he passed the kitchen door, a very posh voice floated out into the corridor

“Mm…59 centimeters, good. Approximate weight 19 kilograms. A little skinny, but everything seems to be in order otherwise. Paw, please.” 

Greg doubled back and stood at the door, peering in through the crack. Mycroft was on bended knee on the tile floor. He was running one hand over the dogs front paw as the other held her shoulder to stabilize her. 

“Paws all in good order. You look about five years old, lovely girl. What do you think? Sound reasonable?” Mycroft let the pup set her paw back down and stood up. Walking over to the sink, he grabbed a bowl and filled it with water. After he set it down the dog began to lap gratefully at the drink.   
Mycroft smiled down at her and began to rummage through the fridge.   
“I’m sure Gregory has muttered to you about how I can’t stand dogs. He’s never asked me about them. Just because I don’t like a messy house, he assumes these things.”  
Mycroft pulled out some lettuce and two cucumbers from the fridge and placed them on the counter.   
“Honestly, that man,” He continued, bending back down to grab a tomato. “Drives me crazy.”  
The dog looked up at Mycroft. Greg couldn’t see her face but he’d bet his next promotion that she was giving him the dogs equivalent of an eye roll. 

“Humph. Right back at you. Now, shift over.” Mycroft stood with the tomato and moved to the counter, nudging the dog out of his way.   
“I have the feeling Gregory will wish to keep you.” Mycroft said as he selected a cutting board and knife from the drawer nearest him. “I suppose we’ll have to schedule a trip to the veterinarian for you. I don’t mind though. I haven’t had a dog since Sherlock was little.” The dog responded by yawning, and moving away from her bowl to lie down in the corner near the stove. Her eyes tracked Mycroft as he moved, tail waggling slightly. Greg shifted at the door and she perked up, head snapping to his location. Mycroft looked over at her, then glanced at the door and smiled.   
“Come in Gregory and wash the lettuce for me.”  
Greg shook his head and opened the door to the kitchen.   
“She blew my cover.” He said, sulking a little as he grabbed the strainer from the cupboard above the refrigerator.   
“Would you care to explain how she, a five year old, three legged, German Shepherd, came to be waiting at the front door for me when I arrived home Gregory?”  
“Um…there was a case?” Greg said rubbing the back of his neck, guiltily.   
“And?” Mycroft said putting down his knife and rummaging in a drawer for a peeler.  
“And her owner was murdered.”  
“And?” Mycroft said, starting in on the cucumbers.  
“And she was very sad and I didn’t want to give her to animal control because no one wants a three legged dog and dogs are very loyal so they can get depressed, honestly, and I didn’t want her to end up without a home or- oomph!“  
Greg’s spew of information was cut off when Mycroft turned and pressed their lips together.  
After they broke apart, Greg fluttered his eyes open. Three years of marriage and Mycroft could still make his knees go to jelly with nothing more than a kiss.  
“Or somewhere she wouldn’t be happy.” Mycroft finished up for him. “She’s very lucky you worked her owners case. Does she have a name?”   
“Well not really.” Greg said, a guilty look on his face. “Her owner had just adopted her from the shelter before she got killed. She’d only had her for about a week and was apparently calling her Jo. I tried, but she doesn’t respond to it.” He admitted with a shrug.   
The pair looked over at the dog who had gone back to sleep in her corner.   
“Jo?” Mycroft called softly. Her ears didn’t even twitch at the name.   
“I’m not sure she likes it.” Greg said turning back to his lettuce.   
“Well what can we call her, since we seem to have adopted her?” Mycroft said picking up his knife and beginning to slice the cucumbers.   
“I dunno. Sherlock?”  
Mycroft let a very undignified snicker escape.   
“Perhaps not. My brother’s ego is large enough without our dog sharing his name.”  
“Well Sherlock is a girl’s name.” Greg said shaking the lettuce, “I was lucky Sherlock came along to this case. He figured out that it was the owners nephew wanting his share of the will to pay off gambling debts.”  
“She,” Greg continued gesturing to the dog with his shoulder, “went ballistic when he walked into the precinct. Sherlock knew right off that it was him and proved it with the receipts in his pockets. Lucky guess, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to check. The nephew was a chemist and had slipped something into her drink. ”   
“Lucky..” Mycroft murmured, looking over at the dog. Her ears had perked at the word.   
Greg was watching and repeated the word a bit louder.   
“Lucky! Come.” The dog got up wagging her tail and hopped over to the men.   
“Lucky?” Mycroft said. The dog angled her head, tail thumping on the floor.   
“I guess we figured out her name.” Greg said smiling. “So can we really keep her?”   
“I don’t see why not as long as she doesn’t chew my umbrella or shoes.” Mycroft responded, smiling to match Greg. Lucky slipped out of the kitchen, making a beeline for the front door.   
“Think she wants to go out?” Greg asked.   
“I do not think so. I’ve just let her out.” Mycroft responded, drying his hands on a towel. “One of us should check.” Before either of them left the kitchen however, Lucky slipped back in and deposited the aforementioned umbrella at Mycroft’s feet.   
“Looks like she plays fetch Myc.” Greg said, attempting to keep his mirth contained.   
“Oh, how lucky.” Mycroft replied, crinkling his face at the slobber shining all over the handle of his umbrella.   
Lucky barked and went to lay down once more.  
“I dunno Myc. I think we might be the lucky ones.” Greg said slipping his hand down to entwine his fingers with Mycroft’s.   
“I know we are, Gregory.” Mycroft said, giving his husbands fingers a squeeze.  
“I know we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!   
> Here is my little suggestion. Don't buy dogs. Adopt dogs. Especially older dogs who need homes.   
> Same with cats. All animals really. They just need some love and patience.   
> Please? Help the animals y'all!  
> As always find me on tumblr here:  
> http://hums-happily.tumblr.com


	6. Mormor:  I Thought You Would Know Better Than To Taunt A Man With A Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He thinks you’re dead.”
> 
> “The whole world thinks I am.”
> 
> “Well, everyone goes through this phase at some point or another. Oh, I’ve faked my death to save myself. Oh, I’ve faked my death for the greater good. Oh, I’ve faked my death for the game, won’t you ever forgive me?.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this Tumblr Post: http://bashermoriarty.tumblr.com/post/92560934960/mormor-au-months-after-the-reichenbachfall-jim
> 
> Written rather fast, not edited. Enjoy your daily dose of Mormor angst.   
> Come find me on tumblr here for more writing and massive amounts of fandom posting! http://hums-happily.tumblr.com

“He thinks you’re dead.”

“The whole world thinks I am.”

“Well, everyone goes through this phase at some point or another. Oh, I’ve faked my death to save myself. Oh, I’ve faked my death for the greater good. Oh, I’ve faked my death for the game, won’t you ever forgive me?.”

“Somehow, I doubt that most people have this problem. So ordinary, the lives they lead.”

“You’ve never objected to a bit of normal in the past. In fact, I know a certain sniper who’d just die to see you again.” 

“He was never ordinary.” Jim’s eyes flicked up to meet the woman’s, the dangerous gleam they had once held, flickering dimly.

“And you never expected him to be. Now, shall we send Moran a message?” 

Leather covered fingertips tapped across the phone keyboard as blood red lipstick curved up in a smile. Jim snarled as the woman turned the screen to face him. 

“Here we are. How about, ‘I’m not dead, let’s have dinner?” 

“Definitely not.” 

“No? Maybe, ‘I’m not dead, let’s have se—“

“Christ, Irene!” Jim said spinning around, and tossing his hands up.

“Well if you had just told him how you felt we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“How would that have stopped me faking my death? Besides, you think he wanted this life? You think he’d come back to this?” Jim stopped, turning so the light filtering in from the window fell across his scarred face. 

“Oh honestly,” Irene said, tossing the phone at the criminal, “You boys are so alike. Sherlock had the exact same problem. Never coming clean about your feelings. Ridiculous. We’re done here.” She began to walk away, heels snapping on the concrete floor.

“We aren’t done here!” Jim called after her, cradling the captured phone in his hands.

“Yes, we are.” She responded faintly, “Figure out your personal life before you try to rebuild a criminal empire. And don’t drag me into it. I’m finished with you boys and your ridiculous notions of love. Always having to be the martyr. ” 

Jim let her go, scowling at her receding form. Swearing, he looked down at his phone, to see the last outgoing message. 

10:53 pm [You’ve made me very angry, Miss Adler]

>10:55 pm [You know who you’re dealing with.]

>10:56 pm [I suggest you come prepared to deal with the consequences.]

>10:57 pm [Jim would be so disappointed in you. Choosing such an ordinary way to die?]

——————————

>10:58 pm [I thought you would know better than to taunt a man with a broken heart.]


	7. Sherstrade: My Oak Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a tough case, but not for the reasons you might think it was. Sherlock is rattled and needs a little comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger for mention of drug usage and young death. Very slight, nothing graphic or explicit.  
> Written for Megabat who asked very nicely for more Sherstrade. Your wish is my command dear.  
> I might actually take this fic, edit it and expand it depending on how I feel. I really like how my boys are behaving in this one.

Gregory Lestrade stepped into the shade of the trees and glanced around for his consulting detective. In the twilight, Sherlock was nothing but a silhouette, long coat fluttering in the autumn breeze. He was standing underneath an oak tree, head tilted up to the leaves, and hands pressed against the bark.  
“Sherlock?” Greg said quietly, as he walked up to the man. There was no response as Greg watched the shadows thrown by passing headlights flicker, across the angles of the other man’s face.  
“Sherlock.” Greg repeated still quiet, this time laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.  
“We’ve finished up and we’re going to clear out of the park now. Do you want a lift? I know you hate the pandas.”  
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a pirate.” Sherlock said, deep voice mellow and tired.  
“What?” Greg asked. Sherlock turned, one hand still on the tree trunk.  
“I desperately wished to be a pirate when I was younger. I’d play out in in the woods by our house, make rafts to float down the river. Mother would have to send Mycroft out to fetch me every night.” Sherlock looked at Greg, and gave a soft smile. “My fascination lasted for years. Eventually, Mycroft got tired of it and sat me down to explain that I couldn’t be a pirate because the government had gotten rid of all of the pirates. I was appalled. I still haven’t forgiven Mycroft for working for the government.” 

Greg stood very still, as Sherlock met his eyes. The other man wasn’t crying, but there was a sense of fragility reflected back at him.  
“It’s always tough with the young ones.” Greg said stepping closer. Sherlock leaned down so their foreheads rested on one another. “You just have to remember that we’ve done what we can and since we’ve caught the killer they’ll be punished.”  
“Why didn’t anyone help her, Greg?” Sherlock breathed out, voice trembling.  
“I don’t know Sherlock. I don’t know why no one helped her, but I know you’ll drive yourself crazy asking.” Greg moved his hand up to rest it around the back of Sherlock’s neck.  
“When Mycroft told me there weren’t pirates anymore, I ran out to the woods behind the house and cried. When they sent Mycroft out to find me, I ran and climbed up my favorite tree. It was an oak, tall and so, so old. They left me alone once they realized I was safe.” Sherlock said, breath fogging in the cooling air. “I stayed out all night, curled up in the branches, high above the ground. I could see the stars from between the branches.”  
Sherlock paused here, and closed his eyes. “The oak tree was my safe place from then on. Whenever someone from school was mean to me, or an experiment didn’t work, I’d climb up and rest in the branches. But when I came to London, I found a new safe place.  
Greg’s eyes widened, when he realized what Sherlock was saying.  
“You saved me. Without you, I would have ended up like that girl. High and alone and scared and undeniably dead. You are my oak tree, Gregory Lestrade. You make everything bright and sweet like starlight. When you hold me in your arms, I feel safe. I can be myself and never have to worry about being called a freak or laughed at.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled away enough to see the older man’s face. His hands came out of where he had stowed them in his pockets to rest on the hips of his lover. Greg tilted his face up.  
“Greg, I want you to take me home now.” The imperious facade was back, weakness of before hidden, voice tinged just slightly with exhaustion.  
“Yeah, alright Sherlock.”  
Sherlock smiled softly at that and leaned in to kiss his partner. It wasn’t perfect. Sherlock’s lips were chapped and Greg had a bit to much stubble than either of them preferred. But they kissed as the night around them turned dark, and the few stars visible from London came out to spark in the night sky. And if neither of them dropped the other’s hand when they turned to go home, well, that was for the stars to judge.


	8. Mormor: 21 Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very first meeting of Moriarty and his sniper.

21 positions.

The top of the building there to the left. Art gallery, lots of natural light, high windows. The second floor of the bank to my right, third window down.  
That tree, fourth branch up provides enough height and cover. Well placed branches to allow a quick getaway while everyone swarms the body. The cafe across the street. The balconies of the flats above the shops to the left. So many positions for a good sniper to lie in wait. 

Excellent.

 

Sebastian Moran struck another match and held it to the tip of his cigarette.   
Reclining, he crossed his right calf over his left knee. And waited. His contact had said to wait, so he did. But waiting didn’t mean letting your guard drop. The kevlar he was wearing under his jacket, the gun in his waistband, and the knife strapped into the ankle of his boot were proof of that. Wouldn’t help if someone decided to go for a head shot, but complete peace of mind was hard to come by in the business. Every hour he'd check his watch, strike another match and lit another cigarette. Moran wasn’t a pretty man. Tall and broad shouldered, scarred under his clothes, one would think he would attract attention. The very thing that makes Sebastian Moran so valuable is his ability to blend. He is able to bleed into the shadows or to take the spotlight as a job demands.This ability had garnered….attention in the past. From some more than unsavory characters. But never anyone of the same caliber as the man who slid onto the park bench next to him, three hours into his wait. 

 

“I hope you don’t mind.” The little man said in a soft Irish brogue. “I’m waiting for a friend.”  
Sebastian grunted and ground his cigarette into the sole of his shoe, slipping the butt into his pocket alongside the others.  
“He’s very good at what he does.” The new man continued. “Counting positions. Calculating options.” The man turned to look at him, with an unsettling grin. “What number do you think he’s thinking of now?”

Sebastian glanced around before looking the dark-haired man straight in the face.   
“I’d say he’s thinking of 21.”

“Very good!” The man said, clapping his hands gleefully. “I’d say you’re right!”  
“Leaning in the man continued, “If my friend had happened to say another number, 20 for instance, it would have been such a shame. Because position 21 just so happens to hate being overlooked. Course I have an opening for position 21. The previous occupant had a bit of a…rebellious streak.” The man leaned back and looked over Moran with a questing eye. 

“Last chance to leave.” He said grinning. 

“There isn’t a choice.” Moran said shrugging. “There never is.”   
“Ooh lovely. I can tell you won’t be boring. The tiger knows how to play the game!” the man trilled. “Someone’s certainly well on his way to earning his stripes. Smart, very smart.”

He stood and brushed off his suit before coming to stand in front of Sebastian. Sebastian closed his eyes as the little man leaned forward. Warm breath coasted over his cheek as a soft voice whispered dangerously in his ear.  
“I’ll be in touch tiger.”   
Sebastian kept his eyes closed for a very long time, with only the faint smell of mint to keep him company.


End file.
